


Thursday Nights

by WritingToKeepMySanity



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Some Swearing, Sort Of, Thursday Nights, Tumblr Prompt, i don't know how to explain it, it's mentioned - Freeform, pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingToKeepMySanity/pseuds/WritingToKeepMySanity
Summary: Spot and Race meet up every Thursday night.But they's just pals, right?





	Thursday Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracedameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracedameron/gifts).



> I did a prompt challenge on tumblr recently and found a common thread in some of my Sprace drabbles, so I took all the drabbles and smashed them together in what I hope is a coherent fic.
> 
> ***
> 
> For Grace, who threw me down the Sprace rabbit hole without warning ;)

Race was a Newsie for just a little over six months before he found out about the poker game in Brooklyn every Thursday night. 

He'd been selling too close to Coney Island and some of Conlon's boys tried to chase him off. But Race, being a fourteen-year-old mouthy spitfire, had defiantly stood up to them, demanding that  _he_ was there first, it was  _his_ sellin' spot. The two boys probably woulda soaked him if Spot hadn't intervened.

"Hey fellas. What've we got here?" he asked strolling up to them, hooking a thumb through his suspenders.

"One'a Manhattan's boys, hangin' around our turf," the bigger boy said, sneering at Race, who puffed out his chest indignantly.

"I was here  _first_ ," he insisted, staring Spot down. They were about the same height, but this other Newsie radiated power, like he was used ta bein' the one in charge, kinda like Jack. "Don't know how ya do things here in  _Brooklyn_ , but in Manhattan, it's first come, first sell."

Spot studied him. "You one'a Kelly's boys?"

"Yeah."

"What's ya name, kid?"

Straightening his shoulders, Race answered, "Racetrack Higgins."

"Racetrack, really? Wanna stick with that?"

"Like you's one ta talk," Race said, without thinking. "Yeah, I's heard'a ya. _Spot_ Conlon. Ya wanna stick with _that_?"

The darker-haired boy squinted at him, sizing him up. Race slid his Newsie bag so that his papes sat on the small of his back, balling his fists, ready for a fight. He didn't like his chances against the three bigger, older boys, but he wouldn't go without a fight.

Finally Spot laughed. "Alright, pal. You can sell here today. But don't lemme catch ya 'round our sellin' grounds again, 'kay?"

Nodding quickly, just glad to not be getting soaked, Race agreed. "Yeah, sure."

Spot and his boys turned to leave, and Racer let out a tiny sigh of relief. 

"'ey, Higgins. Ya play poker?"

Shrugging, Race shifted his Newsie bag again. "Sometimes. Why?"

"We's got a game here'n Brooklyn ev'ry Thursday. Y'should stop by sometime."

 

*** 

 

“I thought you was dead," Spot said without preamble as Race stepped through the front door of the Brooklyn Lodging House.

He hadn't wanted to show it too much, but he'd been concerned when Race hadn't shown up for the poker game a month ago. After almost a year, poker night had become as habitual as his cigar smoking. Spot had even considered goin' over to Manhattan to ask Kelly where he was, but a cold had broken out among the younger Newsies, and the headlines hadn't been sellin'-worthy, so he'd had his hands full.

But he'd still been worried. For his pal. New York streets weren't always too friendly, after all.

So when Race had come wandering in on a Monday morning, Spot was relieved. 

For his pal.

Race shook his head. “Naw, just a stint in tha Refuge. Jackie and I just busted out las’ night. What’d I miss here in Brooklyn?”

Spot shrugged. “Not much new here. Couple’a tha kids are gettin’ sick. Sellin’s been slow. Any news from the Refuge?”

“Rats, three kids to a bed, not ‘nuff food ta go ‘round, beatin’s if ya talk too loud…”

“So pretty much tha same as always?”

“Pretty much.” Race ran a hand through his hair. “Say, you fellas still have tha poker game on Thursday?”

“Yeah, you’s comin’ next week?” Spot asked, trying for nonchalance and probably failing. 

“Yeah, I’ll be here afta sellin’. Been in tha Refuge fer a month, gotta remind ya how a good poker game’s played.” Race stood, jamming his hat back on his head. “Betta be headin’ back ‘fore Jack thinks I got snatched again. Just wanted ta stop by an’ let’cha know I ain’t dead.” He stood to leave.

“Hey, Higgins.” Spot called after him.

“Yeah?”

Spot didn’t look up from his pape. “‘S’good ta see ya ugly mug ‘round here again.”

Race grinned, rolling his ever-present cigar between his fingers. “See ya next week, Conlon.”

 

***

 

Neither of them were sure when Race started staying later and later after the poker games, late into the night, long after the other boys had folded, just talking with Spot.

Neither boy was even sure when they started feeling... things for each other.

Things that made them feel funny when the other walked in the door. Things that made Race's heart beat faster than when he watched a close horserace, made Spot feel like a bumbling idiot, not the tough borough leader he was.

Things that shouldn't be right.

(but,  _god_ , why couldn't they be?)

And it was a Thursday night when they finally acted on those feelings.

“No one needs to know.”

“There’s nothin’ ta know!” Spot insisted. “Ya come here ta play poker, s’all.”

“ _Every_  Thursday. Ya think they don’t notice?”

“You likes gamblin’,” he reminded Race. “S’why they calls ya Racetrack.”

Race shook his head, blonde curls bouncing wildly. “They’s smart, Spotty. Someone’s gonna notice.” 

“Then don’t give ‘em nothin’ ta notice.” Spot said decisively. 

“So we’s just gonna pretend nothin’ happened?” Race didn't understand the weight in the pit of his stomach, why he was upset that Spot was pretending nothing had happened. They were dancin’ ‘round the subject, carefully avoiding mentioning what just happened.

“Y’know what happens ta guys who get caught doin’ what we was just doin’? They gets soaked, arrested. An’ that’s if they’s lucky. I jus’,” Spot clenched his fists. “I don’t want nothin’ ta happen ta ya, Race.”

They stood, staring at each other for a long while, before Spot finally turned away

“S’far as anyone’s concerned, we’s just pals who play cards every week.” 

“Sure,” Race muttered. “Pals.”

 

***

 

“Hey, I’s with _you_ , okay? Always.”

“That don’t matter ‘less you’s with all’a us, Spotty!” Race protested, standing up and pacing the floor, dragging a hand through his hair. “We needs Brooklyn if we’s gonna pull off the strike and you knows it!”

Spot lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes at Racer. “Did Kelly send ya here ta beg for our help? That’s low, even fer him.”

Jack, Davey, and Les had come back from Brooklyn, disappointed, sayin' that Spot Conlon wouldn't help with the strike. Race had slipped away, hoping he could convince Spot to change his mind.

He shoulda known it wasn't as easy as that.

“Jack don’t know I’m here,” Race shot back. “Don’t even know why I really come up every Thursday night. This is me, askin’ ya, pal ta pal—“

“Oh, that’s what we is, Racer? _Pals_?” Spot spat out. “We’s just real friendly pals, huh?”

Race stepped up to him, and Spot internally cursed at how tall he was, forcing Spot to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. He'd shot up over the last two years, was hardly the beanpole of a kid Spot had met two years ago.

“That’s what we calls it, don’t we? ‘Lest we’s git soaked, or arrested, or worse, right?”

Shaking his head, Spot clenched his jaw. He wasn’t havin’ this talk again with Race.

“Come back when tha Manhattan Newsies proves they ain’t chicken. That they ain’t gonna run first time tha bulls show up,” Spot said through gritted teeth. He made to turn away, but Race grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

Spot went to retaliate—this was his borough, Race had no right makin’ moves like that, no matter what they were—but something in Race’s eyes locked him in, froze him, and before he knew it, Race had gripped the sides of his face and brought his mouth roughly to Spot’s.

The kiss—their first since they'd decided they was just  _pals—_ was raw, angry, borderline painful, and over quicker than Spot woulda liked.

“ _Manhattan. Ain’t. Chicken._ ” Race growled, stepping back and jamming his cigar back in his mouth. “Brooklyn’s the one sittin’ out,” he reminded Spot, turning on his heel to leave. Before the door slammed behind him, Spot heard a muttered “ _Pals,_ my ass.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know your thoughts! Hit me up here or on tumblr @wordshakerofgallifrey. 
> 
> Comments, concerns, and critiques welcome. Peace, love, and sanity!!


End file.
